


the despondent traveller, heavy hearted

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [21]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 07:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13970628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Jaime Lannister is sentenced to the Wall for his crimes against the realm. The journey includes some unexpectedly pleasant way-points.





	the despondent traveller, heavy hearted

When they told him he’d be taking the Black, he’d thought it a jape, or else a very thinly veiled lie. Oh yes, they’d let him live out his days on the Wall, the place many thought he should have been sent at the close of the Rebellion anyway. But only if he managed to get there, without a catspaw slitting his throat first. Robert Baratheon wasn’t one to allow himself to grow horns, without lopping off heads in recompense. Cersei’s beautiful, slowly rotting face spiked atop the Red Keep was proof of that.

It wasn’t a surprise, that they’d had him dragged from his filthy cell and flung onto the steps of the Sept of Baelor, in front of the hungry amassed crowd of smallfolk. All pushing and shoving to get a better view of his disgrace. People were all the same; pretending to admire and respect you, but revelling in your misery the moment you were brought low. Hypocrites, all of them.

Jaime didn’t care that he would be sent to the Seven Hells imminently. He’d meet Cersei there.

Of course, it was rather a shock, when Robb Stark passed judgement upon him, not Robert, and Ilyn Payne was nowhere to be seen.

“Ser Jaime Lannister, you have been found guilty of theft from the crown. Stealing King Robert’s true heirs from forming in the womb, by laying most unnaturally with the former Queen Cersei, your own sister by blood.”

Jaime said nothing. He wouldn’t give this boy the satisfaction of denouncing Robert, protesting the validity of his love, or begging for his life.

“For the crime of adultery with the former Queen, you will be sent to the Wall, to take the Black and join the Night’s Watch, your only hope of regaining any honour in this life.” The boy droned on, still keeping up the fiction that this day would end any other way than with Jaime’s head parted from its usual position.

“For the crime of theft,” continued the so-called King in the North, “the punishment is clear.”

Guardsmen grabbed him by his arms then, shoving him to his knees, his muscles too weak from atrophy to do more than ache in protest. His shackled hands were yanked before him, the left dragged onto the block. Jaime began to struggle then, but the irons kept his hands where the guards wanted them. Jaime stared in mute horror as Robb Stark, First of His Name, unsheathed his longsword.

“I, Robb of House Stark, King in the North, do sentence you to the loss of a hand.”

The Boy King leaned close then, glaring directly into his eyes. 

“You deserve worse than this,” he sneered, spitting in Jaime’s face. “You have Sansa to thank for your head.”

Jaime was not surprised that the cutting was slow; torturous and brutal. He had put his sword through the boy’s father, after all. His blood ran down the block, viscous and hot as Jaime screamed and screamed. Until the pain, and sight of his hand hanging on by a thread of skin, was too much, and he knew no more.

*

He was afforded a few weeks for his stump to heal, during which time he was tended by the new Grand Maester. Pycelle had lost his head not long after Cersei, during Robert’s mass culling of Lannister supporters at court. The new man was far younger, bruske but not unkind. No infection set in the horrid new wound, at least in part to his actions. Jaime now being confined to servants quarters, rather than his former spot in the Black Cells, was probably the more pertinent move.

To his surprise, they fed him decently, though nothing extravagant. Once his stump had begun to heal properly, he was dragged out once a day to spar with all comers. Thank the gods they hadn’t taken his sword hand, though if they truly planned on trotting him up to the Wall, he supposed that made sense. Jaime’s balance was all wrong at first. Though it helped that he’d never been too reliant on duelling with both hands on his sword.

Robb Stark came to observe his training most days. After the first couple of sessions, he interrupted Jaime’s current sparring partner, to shackle a shield around his forearm. Tightening the straps almost painfully, so that it wouldn’t slide off. Jaime glared at the boy that had mutilated him, but since they only gave him wooden swords to practice with, there wasn’t much else he could do. To his great surprise, the shield helped. He stopped trying to use a hand that wasn’t there, and instead utilised blocking maneuvers he had learnt as a child, but had rarely used in actual combat. 

Not that he was going to thank the little whelp for the idea, but it was certainly a useful tip to remember. It came with the added benefit of being able to temporarily forget about his lack of one hand, since the shield was easily manipulated as though it were still there.

*

Jaime had wanted to hate Robb Stark, but found it next to impossible, when he started bringing Tommen and Myrcella to his daily practices in the yard. No one had told Jaime what happened to them, and Cersei had been so sure that if they lost, their lives would be forfeit. She had infected him with her paranoia. He hadn’t wanted to ask a Stark man or the new maester about their fates, lest they sneer and smile describing their horrific deaths. Perhaps it was no more than he deserved, having failed to protect Elia and her children. Too busy saving the lives of thousands by killing Aerys and his pyromancer. One foul deed, leading to so much unforseen retribution...

Jaime had been hesitant to approach the children after his daily outing was done. But King Robb encouraged them to go to him instead. He found himself embracing them for the first time as their father. He was frightened then, for their fates, if they were to be kept alive. Tommen was too little, too soft to be sent to the Wall with him. And what of Myrcella? Someone so sweet, wasting away as a Septa? Or perhaps to be married to some ancient, lowborn bastard of the meanest House in Westeros?

He had to ask, as he was escorted back to his cage; King Robb taking his children back to their own. But his guards either didn’t know, or didn’t care to tell him.

Jaime let worry eat at him day and night, until he finally caved and asked his gaoler himself. King Robb levelled him with a flat, unimpressed look, but at least he consented to answer.

“Myrcella is to marry Renly, and accompany him back to Storm’s End.”

“Marry Renly? She’s ten years old!” Jaime repeated, aghast, but mostly shocked that Robert would consent to let his own brother marry a bastard girl born of incest, denounced by the High Septon and the vast majority of Westeros.

Robb seemed to understand all the questions he did not ask. He sighed heavily, but did not tell Jaime he had no right to question anything, as most men would have.

“Renly was worried for her fate. I think he just wants a wife to quieten the rumours about him, and is taking the opportunity to do a good deed in the same instance.” Robb mused, and his opinions of the current state of court would certainly be more well-informed than Jaime, who hadn’t seen anything but his own room and the sparring yard for two moons.

“And Tommen?” Jaime pressed, not wanting to think too hard on Myrcella’s future loveless marriage. At least she had liked Renly well enough as an uncle. He was kinder than his brother, and wouldn’t hurt her. Probably.

“Tommen is for the Citadel.”

Jaime blinked at that, recalling his own horrible days learning to read and write to an adequate standard, at his father’s knee. Four hours a day in Father’s stifling solar at Casterly Rock, forced to write the same letters over and over until his hand cramped. He still got apprehensive whenever he had need to visit Father’s rooms as an adult. A son from his loins, training to be a maester? It seemed improbable at best.

“Well,” Jaime murmured, “It takes a lot of study and skill to forge a chain. And Tommen always enjoyed to read.”

“An honourable profession.” Robb agreed, “And a safe one.”

Jaime met his eyes, and saw what Robb would not say out loud; that the children would live, if they all went to their assigned places and did their duty. Night’s Watchmen and Maesters typically not fathering any babes, and Myrcella tied back into House Baratheon, where Robert could control her. A very neat conclusion indeed, for the fat Stag.

All of his children, away from the corruption of the Iron Throne. Not such a terrible outcome after all, though Cersei would have disagreed. But Cersei wasn’t here, and they would all have to learn to live without her influence, though Jaime's heart seized, whenever he contemplated his future, without her.

*

Jaime was led North with the weather-beaten, tired Northmen, eager to get home to their dour wives and squalling babes. With a jolt, Jaime realised he too would be reunited with his babe; the only one that he would likely see again.

He hadn’t thought too much on how Joffrey was faring at the Wall- if he even still lived. Joffrey was a brat who did not endear himself to anyone, and no longer enjoyed the protection of royal blood. Joffrey was very likely to offend the wrong person one too many times. The boy had inherited everything negative about him and Cersei; he was cruel, headstrong and rash. Joffrey rarely practiced anything of worth, and he certainly hadn’t inherited Jaime’s skill with a sword. But then, Jaime had trained under Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy, all the hours the day would allow. He didn’t just stumble into his skill, it was honed over years of sweat and toil.

He had certainly taught the Northmen a thing or two, with just his swordhand. Eventually, even King Robb had fought him, and though he was better than Jaime had anticipated, he was no Loras Tyrell or Sandor Clegane. After their first bout had ended in a draw, the young King had sparred with him every day, and more often than not, so did the newly crowned Prince of Dragonstone. They were already showing signs of marked improvement, but Jaime was only disappointed that he had not met them in open battle. If he had, perhaps the outcome of the war would have been very different. But alas, it was Father who had clashed with Robb, and Robert who had cut down Jaime’s forces, after they had already been decimated by Robb’s night time attack.

There was no use wishing for alternate outcomes; Jaime was too old for that. He let their steady progress away from King's Landing wash over him, without active attention. He was unsurprised when they were ambushed by ‘bandits’ just barely outside of the Crownlands, on the road North. Jaime made no move to protect himself; he had little use for life, without Cersei to share it with. But the 'bandits' were kept far from him, and the only one left living after the skirmish was Ser Bronn. Robert’s favourite sellsword, and a newly minted member of the Kingsguard. Taking Jaime’s own place, after earning his spot fighting with the Baratheon forces streaming out from the Vale, right at the start of the conflict.

Robb couldn’t kill Bronn after he surrendered, without better justification. Though Robert was a fool to send such a well-known man to assassinate Jaime on the road North, it was hardly a surprise to anyone. Bronn was sent back to King’s Landing minus his dead companions, no doubt to get an earful of abuse from Robert, which would have to suffice as punishment.

The Riverlands were a mess, pockmarked and pitted by destroyed farmland and razed farmhouses. The Westerlands were worse, by all accounts. The Ironborn had reaved, ravished and pillaged, until barely a speck of wealth could be found anywhere outside of the deepest vaults. Or so the talk went. There was a new song the marching soldiers sang, about the rape of the West by the sea. It made Jaime’s gut churn as he gritted his teeth, every time he heard it.

They made camp outside the twins, hosted for a week to stock up on supplies and strength before they trudged ever Northwards. Jaime was grateful for the delay. His last chance to see green and fertile lands during the dying summer, before he was shackled to permanent Winter in the far North. Why Tyrion ever wanted to see the bloody Wall, Jaime will never understand. There was nothing glorious about a gigantic shield of ice protecting the realm from base savages.

Now Jaime was to call it home, and share it with his least favourite child.

*

Jaime was afforded one last boon before he was to take his vows, and live out his days at the end of the world. Tyrion was at Winterfell, and Robb allowed him, and the other men bound for the Watch, to camp there for several days. Enough time to say an adequate goodbye.

Tyrion was so pleased to see him alive and mostly whole, that his joy was infectious. Jaime gathered his small brother into his arms, uncaring who could see. He never thought to see Tyrion again, after war broke out, and his brother was trapped in the North. It seemed inevitable that after Jaime killed Ned Stark, he had signed his own brother’s death warrant.

He apologised for it, loudly and unreservedly, but Tyrion would not have it.

“You were fighting in a war.” He chided, “It could have meant the difference between your own life and death; of course I did not expect you to just lay down your sword.”

“Still, I would never have forgiven myself, had you been executed-”

“Northmen are far too honourable for that,” Tyrion waved away his concerns firmly. “Lady Sansa- I suppose she is to be a Queen someday, if Robb Stark is truly forfeiting his claim to the Iron Islands- she would not have it.”

Jaime frowned heavily at that. Robb said he owed his life to Sansa also, so he questioned if Tyrion knew anything about that. Tyrion shrugged, but did not seem flustered by the news.

“She has had control of Winterfell since Robb rode to war against you. And the position was not a symbolic one, mark my words; she ran this place with an Iron fist. That woman is all Greyjoy now, believe me. She even dried out Sandor Clegane.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow in disbelief at that, to which Tyrion merely chuckled.

“It’s true!” his diminutive brother insisted, “She offered him the choice of service at the Wall, or service here at Winterfell. He chose to stay here, and she’s had all the Lannister men building storehouses and fortifications for the town and the like. Plus two hours in the Sept at the start of every morn, listening to Septa Mordane read from the Seven Pointed Star. Not a drop of wine for any of them, only a small cup of ale at dinner. They hated her at first, but she’s fair and firm. Like an uncomfortably attractive Septa. I’m not in the least surprised to hear Robb defers to her judgement.”

Jaime considered it, but it still seemed inadequate, as explanations went. “She’s still only a girl. Robb Stark has a mother, the Blackfish for an uncle, and Jon Arryn as another by law. Why defer to his younger sister?”

Tyrion stepped closer into him then, placing a hand on his shoulder, to lean up to his ear.

“They say she has ‘greensight’; that she communes with the old gods, and can see the future.”

At first, Jaime laughed, but it petered off when Tyrion did not join in.

“I’d not mock her if I were you,” Tyrion said with a shudder, “She knew things about my life at Casterly; about my relationship with Father, and Cersei, that she could not have learnt from rumour. She’s not Varys or Baelish, with a thousand spies in every whorehouse. She’s a little girl who spends her time praying before the heart tree and ordering Northmen about, when she’s not fawning over her admittedly adorable baby son. There is something very different about her.”

A shiver ran down Jaime’s spine; Tyrion was not one to believe in tales of grumpkins and snarks. But what concern of Jaime’s was it, really? He only owed her his life.

*

Joffrey was almost unrecognisable, clad in the dull black garb of the Night’s Watch. His golden curls had been shorn to a practical, close-cropped style, and he stood with the balance of a soldier, not in his usual lazy slouch. There were plenty of jeers when Jaime alighted his horse, finally arriving at his ultimate destination, but Jaime only had eyes for his son.

The boy stared at him with mistrust or fear, once Jaime finally had a chance to speak to him. After Lord Commander Mormont had given him a look over, and a grunting explanation of his assigned duties (recruit training in the yard, to no one’s surprise). 

But when Joff opened his usually petulant mouth to ask if his mother was really dead, Jaime recognised the grief in his eyes, as much as his shallow son was capable of feeling. Cersei was always his staunchest defender, coddling him and fussing over him since he was born. It was not incomprehensible that Joffrey would struggle to accept her gone from the world entire.

“She is,” Jaime confirmed sadly, “But you still have me, for whatever that’s worth.”

“You.” Joffrey repeated slowly. “Ser Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer… my father. If the rumours are true.”

He said it dismissively, some of that old arrogance shining through, but Jaime could see Joffrey was worried. That it was true? Or that it wasn’t, and he was just the nameless bastard of some unknown man? Which would be worse in his eyes, Jaime wondered.

What was the point of denying it now? They’d already lost. There was no point in lying about it anymore. He hadn’t to his younger children. Though Tommen hadn’t really understood, Myrcella had been calling him ‘father’ before he left. He found he rather liked the sound of it.

If they were to spend the next however many years serving at the arse end of Westeros together, they might as well begin with honest footing.

“They are,” Jaime confirmed. He carefully approached his son, formerly the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, now just another Black Knight.

The boy was always volatile, prone to tantrums. A year and a half at the Wall can’t have changed him entirely, but they appear to have had some impact. Because instead of lashing out, Joffrey allowed Jaime to gather him close, and even sagged a little into his arms before he skittered away.

“We’ll miss dinner.” he announced, to cover his sudden movement. “The cooks here are fuckers, won’t let you eat if you’re late.”

He sounded as though he was speaking from experience. Jaime watched in wonderment as his son stomped off, leading the way to the hall. Cersei would never have tolerated language like that, and he was intrigued to see how else Joff had changed, free from her influence.

Jaime followed him to a table crammed with men, once they had their bowls of what might be stew. He was about to suggest another, emptier table, but Joffrey surprised him by opening his mouth first.

“Shove over, Grenn. You’re not so big as to need a space fit for three men, aurochs.”

“Streak of piss like you only needs to squeeze in at the end!” laughed a tall, shaggy-haired man, apparently named Grenn.

Jaime fully expected Joffrey to throw a fit at being termed so unflatteringly, but his boy only laughed.

“Give over, Grenn! I want to sit beside my father,” his voice wobbled a little at the end of that statement, nervously.

But his companions; Grenn, and two men who were introduced as Pyp and Edd, did’t bat an eyelid at his announcement, scooting along to make room. The boys chattered away to Joff about the other new recruits, eyeing Jaime with interest and some suspicion. 

“You’ll whip them into shape better than Ser Alliser.” Joff pronounced proudly, when Jaime admitted he would be training them in swordplay.

“The man’s nothing but a bully,” Edd hissed, “None of us would have learnt a thing, if it weren’t for Lord Eddard, sending castle men to train us.”

“He did?” Jaime asked, surprised. He'd heard nothing about an increased need for well-trained men at the Wall.

“Aye,” said Pyp sourly, “Lord Eddard was a great man.”

Jaime thought about Ned Stark claiming a bastard, and all the dishonour that came with it, to protect his sister’s only child from Robert’s wrath. About raising a son strong enough to wrestle a Kingdom from Robert without bloodshed, yet still humble enough to listen to a sister that bid him spare Jaime’s life. A boy kind enough to allow Jaime time to spend with his children and brother, before he would be separated from them indefinitely.

“Yes,” Jaime agreed solemnly, “I suppose he was. And an honourable one, to the very end.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't mean to open a debate about nature vs nurture but I will say: military service changes everyone, and Joff was never going to be his 'best self' under Cersei's influence. There's a reason we call a child 'spoilt' if their parent over-indulges them.


End file.
